The Odd Affair of the Self Operating Typewriter
by Niente Zero
Summary: A short Halloween entertainment.


_**Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm not making any money. I didn't steal the cookie from the cookie jar.  
**_

_**Author's note: Happy Halloween!**_

It was a still, calm early morning when Benton Fraser was woken from his rest in the office that doubled as his bedroom in the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. The sound that woke him was a short tapping, rattling noise that he quickly identified as coming from the old Smith Corona type-writer that his fellow Consulate staffer, Constable Renfield Turnbull, had dragged out of storage. The Smith Corona had the perfect character width to fill out the new SA13-H1I14 forms that Ottawa had sent, without leaving too much blank space on the page. Constable Turnbull had demonstrated this with the use of a rule marked in picas, and who was Fraser to argue with such clerical efficiencies?

However, why someone should be tap, tap, tapping on his typewriter so early in the morning was a matter that puzzled Fraser. He flipped on the light, banishing the eldritch shadows cast over the room by the moon, and picked up his watch to check the time. The hour was approaching five AM, and the date window showed that it was the 31st of October.

Fraser stepped over to the desk and looked at the typewriter. The last SA14-H1I14 form that he'd been filling out the day before now had an extra message in the left margin.

**"Run."**

Fraser made a small chuffing sound of irritation. He'd have to do the form over again. He pulled it from the typewriter and wadded in a ball, being sure to put it in the recycling bin rather than the trash can. Still, a run sounded pleasant. He _had_ been feeling restless lately, and it was too late to go back to sleep.

Fraser changed quickly into running clothes, and with his wolf at his side set off into the Chicago morning. Behind him the old building that housed the Consulate creaked ominously. The bones of the house shifted and settled and the front door re-opened itself so that it could close with a great slam.

Fraser ran a quick five kilometers. Then, checking his watch with a small amount of pleasure at the time he'd made, decided he could do another circuit. By the time he and Diefenbaker returned to the Consulate, sweating lightly and pleasurably out of breath, the sun had begun to turn the morning sky grey and it was time for him to shower and dress for the work day ahead.

The day was busy, and Fraser spent most of it out of the Consulate, liaising with his unofficial partner in the Chicago PD, Stanley "Ray" Kowalski "Vecchio." Ray spent most of the day extolling the virtues of sundry sugary treats that could only be bought at this time of year.

"Oh yeah, buddy, you don't know what you're missing. You got your candy corn, your candy pumpkin, gummy eyes, the best, I mean _best_ pez dispensers going, wax lips, the ones with fangs, candy spiders, okay those are kind of gross, but, you know, anything, any candy you want, you can get it at Halloween. It's my favorite holiday! You want me to get you a rubber bat for the Ice Queen's office?"

Fraser listened with polite interest, while Diefenbaker listened with his tongue lolling out and his eyes wide with anticipation, in spite of any admonition from Fraser to the effect that he should not expect to share in the bountiful candy supply that was bound to show up at the station the next day. Fraser was quite relieved when the day was over. Ray on a sugar high was formidable.

Fraser had just tucked into his red pajamas and settled in his cot when he heard the rattling, tapping sound of the typewriter once more. This time it started with a jab on the tab key - Fraser approved of the old fashioned habit of starting a paragraph with a tabbed indent - and went on for quite a bit longer, the end return bell chiming twice. When stood up and pulled the piece of paper (a clean, fresh piece, and he wondered briefly why on earth whatever was communicating through the typewriter couldn't have used scrap paper for such a short message) from the typewriter, the words on it read:

**"What does it take to scare you?"**

**"Get out!"**

Fraser tilted his head to one side. Well, seven thirty was, he was lead to understand, quite early to be going to bed, and it was Halloween after all, and Ray had invited him to a horror movie marathon. It might do him good to get out and experience a fresh facet of American culture. He picked up the telephone.

"Ray, does that offer still stand?"

The windows in the old building rattled, hard.

By the time that Fraser had discovered a new use for a perfectly ordinary hockey mask and irritated the people in the row in front of him and Ray by providing unnecessary whispered commentary on the unconvincing gallons of fake blood being poured about, it was past eleven pm. Fraser's return to the Consulate was met with a disgruntled wolf nose peeking out from under the cot - Diefenbaker could smell candy in Fraser's coat pocket, yet he was being offered none - and an eerie scent vaguely reminiscent of Fraser's grandmother's split pea soup. Now _that_ was something to stand in horror of. Especially when she served it with bannock.

Fraser changed back into his pajamas and settled to sleep once more. For the third time that day, the typewriter intervened. Fraser sat up with an extremely irritated look on his face. What was it now?

The paper (another fresh, new, sheet, which went to show something about the spiritual world being entirely careless of the environment) read:

**"Danger is stalking you. It is all around you!"**

Fraser looked around the office. The window was locked, and everything was neatly in place. He checked in the closet and found nothing more than clothes and shoes. Leaving his office, he did a thorough check of the interior of the Consulate, stopping to test every lock. Everything seemed fine. The floorboards in the Queen's Bedroom creaked overhead occasionally, but then, it was an old building.

His circuit ended in the kitchen, and as he was still up Fraser thought he might as well have a nice cup of tea. That was when he found the danger that had been lurking, threatening the safety of the Consulate and of anyone in it.

When he reached for the electric kettle, he found that the cord to it was becoming frayed.

"Ahah!" Fraser said. "Well, that could have caused a nasty kitchen fire." He shoved the electric kettle into the trash can and pulled the old-fashioned tea-kettle down from the shelf, setting it on the stovetop and lighting the stove. In a clear, firm voice he said, "Thank you for the warning."

It only took a few extra seconds to be courteous, after all.

The house gave a great shudder, the stones of the building seeming to grind against each other in a hideous tempest of sound. The windows clattered and tree branches beat on the roof as if in a heavy storm. The doors all opened and slammed. On the wall of the kitchen a message appeared in dark, dripping red, emerging slowly as if being drawn by a moving finger. It said:

_**"OH, I GIVE UP!"**_

Fraser approached the wall cautiously, stuck his finger into the red goo, sniffed it, then licked it. Oh dear. Turnbull's excellent quince preserves. What a waste! The clock over the kitchen mantel chimed twelve times. Halloween was over.

Five minutes past midnight on the first of November, Fraser sipped his cup of tea, eyes narrowed in a sort of grim satisfaction. Diefenbaker lay at his feet, devouring a giant candy-corn lollipop that Ray had made Fraser promise to deliver to the wolf. Fraser looked around the kitchen, drinking in the peace and quiet of the night, and his lips twitched into a smirk. Oh, as if he was going to let a small bout of poltergeist activity get to him. If the building thought that, it would just have to think again!


End file.
